The Catch
by thisisforyou
Summary: Puddlemere United beat the Donegal Dragons by two hundred points to one hundred and seventy. Celebrating at the pub after the match, Oliver Wood meets an old schoolmate and discovers a few things he never knew about love. And Slytherins. But mostly love. A love story told in a drabble for every day in February prompted by a line or lines of dialogue from 'chocolate fish'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **A series of drabbles from a line or lines of dialogue prompted by fellow author **chocolate fish**. I haven't written in this fandom for years, so bear with me there. **Chocolate fish** also gave me the pairing, which I'm now in love with. Sorry it's taken me so long to post them, but here are the first few!

Today's line: "_Seriously, stop calling me fucking Daisy!"_

* * *

Puddlemere United beat the Donegal Dragons by two hundred points to one hundred and seventy.

The game lasted for nine hours and by the time they touch down onto the grass, dry and crackly from the incessant heat, Oliver Wood knows with some certainty that if he doesn't get a good stiff _cold_ drink into him possibly an hour ago he night very well die.

It was one of those beautiful but terrible affairs where the teams' Chasers were so perfectly matched that he hadn't been able to look away for a second. It had become apparent early on, modesty aside, that Oliver held an advantage against the older and slower opposing Keeper, but they'd needed it; the Dragons' Seeker is world class. Oliver's seen him play to the finals of the World Cup more than once for the Irish National Quidditch Team.

It takes another few hours before he's had enough chilled apple-cider to lower his temperature back to the tolerable. He's on his way back to the table he's been sharing with the two Puddlemere Beaters when somebody totters into him with a high-pitched squeal of 'ooh!" and spills some kind of Muggle dark beer down his trousers.

The cider's made him feel pleasantly good-humoured, so he doesn't yell at the dark-eyed brunette now sitting at his feet staring forlornly into her half-empty pint glass. He's about to offer her a hand up when someone else does it for him, a broad and masculine appendage with callouses from a broomstick shoved into Oliver's line of sight. "Sorry," a smooth Irish lilt soothes into his ear.

Up close, Aidan Lynch is a familiar face. His blond hair is longer than it was at school, sweeping neatly just off his grey-blue eyes, but he's still plainly recognisable as the only boy who had smiled at Oliver when shaking his hand before his first-ever inter-House Quidditch match. He suddenly can't remember whether he smiled back.

He smiles now, as though that could somehow make up for it, and helps the lithe Seeker pick up his teammate from the pub floor. The Chaser, Katie – Oliver remembers her name because she reminds him of Katie Bell – stumbles to her feet and collapses over Lynch's shoulder. "She doesn't drink very often," he apologises for her, smiling at Oliver before flagging down a passing teammate, ignoring what sounds like a muffled _shut up, Daisy_ from the mouth at his shoulder. "Hey, Dylan, help me with her, would you?"

Dylan McGahn grins at the two of them before peeling Katie Moriarty off of Lynch; the blond sighs gratefully and flexes his shoulders. Oliver realises that this is probably not the best moment to be thinking it, but he suddenly notices that the man in front of him has become incredibly fit. Did he have that rakish, lopsided smile at Hogwarts? A nervous thrum of blood starts up in his ears, pooling warmth into his stomach.

"Incredible flying today," Lynch tells him now, patting him briefly on the arm.

Oliver grins, flattered; the blond does play for Ireland, after all. "And you," he returns. "Great catch. The way you dodged McGahn to follow it – really brilliant."

The Seeker's grin is youthful, mischeivous and infectious. "Cheers," he says brightly, before gesturing at the pint of cider in Oliver's hand. "Are you taking that somewhere?" he asks.

Oliver gestures at the table in the corner where he'd been sitting. Jenny, a deceptively small but utterly formidable Beater, lifts her second glass of Firewhisky in greeting; her fellow beater Howard is busy chatting up a passing barmaid and doesn't look around. "I was just with a few teammates," he says, trying to make the _but I can abandon them if you want _as explicit as possible.

Lynch tips his drink back at Jenny and takes the hint. "D'you want to get a table together?" he asks, lifting his grey-blue eyes so that his fringe just falls over them and he manages to look coquettish in a way that makes Oliver's heart thump like a dog's tail on the floor.

There have been times in the past when Oliver has misread signals and been terrifically embarrassed when the man he'd thought was flirting with him turned around, completely disgusted the moment he tried something a little more forward. It's not difficult to tell that this isn't one of those times.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a little unabashedly breathless.

Unfortunately, the only free two-person table in the pub is within grabbing distance of Katie Moriarty and Dylan McGahn, now equally smashed and in the second verse of a rowdy rendition of _Daisy Bell._

"So," Lynch opens casually, ignoring them. "You were on the Gryfindor Quidditch team when I was at school, weren't you?"

Oliver smiles, surprised that the older man remembers. "We played each other once. It was my first game."

"You were injured," the blond remembers. "I was watching to see if you were all right and the Snitch flew right past my nose. Avery was furious." The two giggle for a moment; Lynch's laugh is clear-cut, like a glass bell. "A Gryfindor and a Slytherin," he muses. "I think we're doomed."

Boldly, Oliver leans forward. "I think I'll take my chances," he says lowly.

Lynch leans forward too until his lager-scented breath hits Oliver's face. "I think –"

He's cut off by Katie Moriarty grabbing him from behind and almost pulling him off his stool. Oliver catches the disappointed look in Lynch's eyes before he turns to look at her, on her knees before him with her hands clasped, still resolutely belting out, "_Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…_"

Aidan Lynch sighs as Dylan McGahn falls off his stool laughing. "I should probably take them back to the hotel," he says sadly as Katie grabs his robes and tugs viciously. "Before they hurt someone."

"Yeah," Oliver agrees dejectedly.

Lynch bends to scoop Katie off the floor for the second time that evening, but then he turns back and leans over the table again. "I'd like to see you again," he says seriously.

Oliver's heart lifts. "Which hotel are you staying at?" he asks.

The former Slytherin beams at him. "The _Phoenix_," he says.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Oliver says, grinning foolishly.

Lynch returns the grin, and then guides his babbling and largely incoherent teammates out of the pub. An irritated, "_Seriously, stop calling me fucking Daisy!" _drifts back from the door, immediately drowned in raucous laughter.

Oliver shakes his head in amusement and pointedly avoids the amused, inquisitve looks coming from Jenny's direction.


	2. Chapter 2

Today's line: "_Stop it! Merlin, you're irritating! No! Stop!" _

* * *

Oliver Wood paced his hotel room for three hours before wandering as casually as he could manage down to the _Phoenix_ and asking for Aidan Lynch.

The receptionist sends him up to the room, where he finds the door open and the WWN at a comfortably overwhelming volume spreading through the doorway. Inside, Aidan is sitting at the tiny table with a cup of tea in one hand and his head in the other, nose buried in a paperback novel. Oliver takes a moment to admire the way his black singlet shows off the corded muscles in his back as he puts down the mug and turns a page.

Then he clears his throat. "Morning," he says gently.

Aidan puts down the book and turns to face him, smiling. Oliver doesn't miss the appreciative flick of blue-grey eyes down his body and feels his heartbeat speed up, as though eager to please. Jenny picked out the outfit for him and he knows he looks good in the light jeans and loose white t-shirt. "Morning," Aidan returns wryly.

Oliver takes that as invitation and moves forward until he's behind the Seeker, peering down at him. "What's the book?"

Aidan flips it over so that Oliver can see the cover; a hand lying across cobblestones, a wand abandoned an inch away under the bold yellow title, _Disarming_.

He's about to comment when an eagle owl swoops through the open window and drops a letter on top of the book before landing on Aidan's shoulder. The blond murmurs a thank-you to it and an excuse to Oliver before picking up the letter.

Oliver makes as if to stroke the owl, but Aidan's hand shoots out with a Seeker's precision to catch his wrist. "I wouldn't," he says gently. "She's nuts."

"Okay," Oliver says, not making to move his hand out of the other man's grip.

As though affronted by the gesture, the owl ruffles her feathers and inches closer to the Seeker's head; while he's engrossed in the letter, she buries her beak in his blond hair as though preening him.

Aidan yelps, "Stop it!" and flaps a hand at her until she pulls away, but he's giggling too and it's the most adorable sound Oliver has ever heard. As soon as the hand has gone she starts again, scraping her beak against his scalp and hooting in something that sounds like amusement as Aidan shakes his head in vain. "Merlin, you're annoying," escapes through the giggles. "No! Stop! _Enough!"_

One of his wild swipes connects with her leg and the owl flutters off to the window again.

Oliver tries to pretend he wasn't laughing in amused delight at the situation, but he has a feeling the older man isn't convinced when the letter flies out and smacks him in the arm. "You shut up," Aidan grumbles, but he's still grinning.

"I could murder an icecream," the Seeker says lightly, throwing the letter down on the table and standing up.

"Please don't," Oliver quips back, pushing off where he was leaning on the table. "What did the icecream ever do to you?"

They leave the hotel room chuckling, Aidan shooting a last stern look at his overly-fond owl on the windowsill.


	3. Chapter 3

Today's line: "_I swear, you've seen that blasted Muggle film 200 times too many."  
_-"_I love Ariel, and you'll never take her away from me."_

* * *

Outside, the heat parallels that of the previous day. The Muggle street shimmers in a heat-haze that threatens to burn Oliver's feet even through the flimsy Muggle sandals Jenny insisted he wear. "So your owl," he says to Aidan as they step into the cloying street.

Aidan chuckles. "Oh, Flottie," he says. "Yeah, I'm sorry about her."

"Flottie," Oliver repeats incredulously. "You named an eagle owl _Flottie?_"

The Seeker frowned at him. "I probably should have picked something a little more majestic," he admits. "But I found her and her brother half-dead on a beach in Cork, so Flotsam and Jetsam seemed appropriate."

Oliver chuckles. "And is the brother as nutty as she is?"

"He died," Aidan says quietly. "Didn't make it back from the beach."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

There's a pause, and then the blond recovers brightly, "Plus, it works as a nod to _The Little Mermaid_, which I've always wanted to do."

Oliver smiles, one hand dancing along the line of shop-windows as they walk. "Flotsam and Jetsam," he muses gently. "They were Ursula's henchmen, right? The eels?"

Aidan stops walking, his mouth hanging open. Oliver grins. "You've seen _The Little Mermaid_?" he asks in disbelief. "I was just taking breath to explain it to you. I'm so used to people looking blank and saying, _what_?"

"If you've had this conversation so often for that to be automatic, I swear you've seen that blasted Muggle film two hundred times too many," Oliver teases.

The blond looks mock-affronted. "I love Ariel," he says firmly. "And you'll never take her away from me."

Oliver laughs. "Wouldn't want to try," he assures him. Then, because he feels supremely confident and yet delightfully shy around the older man, he adds, "You're just a romantic, aren't you?"

Aidan looks at him, the lights from the Muggle electronics store opposite flickering across his face, and he smiles.

"You bet I am," he says happily, and he reaches across and takes Oliver's hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Today's line: _"Nuuumb. Oliver, my mouth feels weird. Why did you make me visit that awful, awful place?"_

* * *

"So," Aidan ventures as they start walking hand-in-hand. "Icecream."

Oliver makes a noise of contented assent. He grew up in Edinburgh, and he sends a brief thanks skyward that their match had so happened to be so close to his home-town. "I know a nice place a few streets away," he says. "In the wizarding part of town."

The icecream parlour, thankfully, is still there despite the fact that Oliver hasn't been there in at least six years; Aidan takes one look at the sign propped up against the sparkly shop window that proclaims the icecream's 'special effects' and grins in delight.

On reflection, Oliver probably should have warned him about the triple-scoop ginger gelato that gives you the 'fizzing sensation in your mouth'. While addictive, he vaguely remembers long nights of trying to hide from his mother the fact that he had lost feeling in his tongue and couldn't speak properly.

"Nuuumb!" Aidan moans, clutching desperately at Oliver's t-shirt as they stumble back up the stairs to the hotel room. "Oliver, my mouth feels weird. Why did you make me visit that horrid, horrid place?"

Oliver, feeling a little tingly himself from the rum-and-raisin double-scoop, giggles as he watches the other man fumble in his bag for his keys. "You said you wanted icecream," he replies simply, tripping over a fold on the carpet.

The Seeker finally manages to thump the door open and almost fall inside, dragging Oliver in behind him. "This is your fault," he slurs. Oliver heroically does not laugh, remembering very well the difficulty the older man is having in forming words properly and it makes him feel slightly more relaxed about the fact that the odd word of his own is coming out a bit wrong. "The _least_ you can do is kiss it better."

Standing awkwardly in the doorway, Oliver blinks at the former Slytherin while his blood runs alternately hot and cold. Then, before he can second-guess the decision or stop himself from doing it, he steps forward and places his lips gently on Aidan's.

They're soft, and they taste like ginger; he can't tell if they're burning because of the after-effects of the icecream or because kissing the Seeker is making his blood race around his veins in double-time; either way, he forgets to even try and breathe and when the other man finally pulls away Oliver gasps for breath like a man half-drowned.

"Better?"

Aidan grins. "Much," he says smugly. "I'll have to remember that remedy."


	5. Chapter 5

Today's line: "_I just had sex in a cardigan. Made me feel old. Smarter somehow, but old." _From this picture (I think): 25 dot media dot tumblr dot com slash cb9c882bf9a4972b47c06d22124f %20efaf/tumblr_mf45c3BoEG1rmhux7o1

* * *

Oliver returns home that night to the little flat he took up with a girl from the Ludicrous Patents Office at the Ministry after she set him up with someone she'd gone to Hogwarts with who had turned out to be Adonis with a serious Quidditch-player infatuation. When the relationship had fallen through, he'd chosen not to hold it against her and there they were instead, maintaining a healthy friendship in a flat off Fine Alley in Hogsmeade.

She's not there when he walks in, so he collapses over the sofa, running his fingers over lips that still taste faintly of ginger and grinning like the biggest idiot in wizarding England; naturally that's when she walks in, curly hair pushing a blue beret off her head, coat askew and stumbling on the carpet in her heels.

"I just had sex in a cardigan," she announces loudly. Oliver spares a thought for the landlady downstairs, an elderly witch who has complained before about Isabel's somewhat lewd lifestyle in a maternal sort of way. "Made me feel old. Smarter somehow, but old."

Oliver gets up and pours her two fingers of Firewhisky, which she knocks back without looking. "Thanks," she says, patting him on the arm. Then she narrows piercing blue eyes at him. "You look like you've just been slapped in the face by Cupid," she says suspiciously. "Who is he?"

"Cupid?" Oliver asks, teasing her. He regrets the decision when she slaps him lightly across the face.

"The _guy_ you've been with who's put that silly grin on your face," she reiterates. Just thinking about Aidan makes Oliver's cheeks burn, and Isabel crows in delight. "There _is_ someone! Pray tell."

She grabs the sleeve of his white shirt and drags him back to the sofa. "Jenny dressed you, didn't she," she says, picking at his sleeves.

Oliver rolls his eyes. "I told her I had a date," he says dully. "She wouldn't let me go over there in shorts and a singlet."

"Quite right, too," she insists. "You look good."

He doesn't mention the fact that Aidan had been wearing shorts and a singlet for fear of sounding ungrateful. "He's on the Donegal Dragons," he explains instead. "We got talking after the match."

Isabel's blue eyes light up. "Congratulations on that, by the way," she says. "So which player was he?"

Oliver holds his breath, waiting for the squeal. "Aidan Lynch?" he ventures tentatively.

Sure enough, Isabel makes a high-pitched shout of delight and throws herself on him in a wild hug. "The Irish National Seeker? Oliver! Why didn't you _tell me_! I had no idea he was gay!"

"Neither did I," Oliver shrugs. "I guess he is, though. It didn't really come up in conversation."

She laughs. "So what did he do to make you look like Romeo on drugs?"

Oliver waves her away airily, feeling his face flushed. "We just kissed. Honestly, the first time we even spoke to each other was last night. Now go away, you're ruining the buzz."

Obligingly, Isabel giggles as she gets up, shucking her jacket to reveal a likely much-loved cardigan. Oliver shudders slightly.

Something taps on the kitchen window; he lets Isabel find it and is rewarded by her delighted laugh. "There's an owl here making funny faces through the window," she calls back. "Its head is sort of swimming. Recognise it?"

"Her name is Flottie," he tells her. "Let her in, she's Aidan's – but don't touch her, she bites."

The owl hoots shrilly as the window slides open and then lands on Oliver's head, dropping the tiny letter so that it bounces off his nose. He unfurls it, trying to thank her but wincing as her claws rake over his scalp.

_I'll be in Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon. Meet me at the Three Broomsticks at three if you like. A_

Oliver smiles. "I won't be here tomorrow afternoon," he calls out to Isabel. "I've got a date."


	6. Chapter 6

Today's line: "_At least this time they're in a pattern. Sort of."_

* * *

The Three Broomsticks is mostly empty – three o'clock on a Monday afternoon yeilds only a group of wizards in uniformed robes having some kind of business discussion in a corner, a drunk obviously well in his cups crooning Celestina Warbeck to himself at the bar, and Aidan, chatting idly to Madam Rosmerta at a two-person table in the middle of the pub.

The two of them look up at him when he enters and smile; Madam Rosmerta's smile is polite and pleased, but Aidan's is joyful, delighted, and makes Oliver want to take the few metres between them at a run. He smiles back instead.

"Butterbeer," Madam Rosmerta says firmly as Oliver approaches. "First round's on the house, Aidan, dear – thanks for dealing with that man for me."

Oliver quirks an eyebrow at the Seeker as he sits down. "Dealing with that man?"

Aidan shrugs. "There was a drunkard in here this morning when I stopped in for coffee," he says unconcernedly. "He started throwing things. I started catching them before they hit anyone."

"Seekers are handy things to have around, aren't they?" Oliver raises his voice for the statement so that the busty barmaid can hear them; Aidan chuckles.

Madam Rosmerta grins over the pint-glass she's currently filling with Butterbeer. "Good with their hands," she agrees, and winks lewdly. Oliver can't quite stop himself from turning scarlet at the thought.

The Butterbeer fills Oliver's stomach with warmth, and he's not quite sure exactly when it happened but he suddenly notices that Aidan's hand is in his across the gleaming tabletop and a kid-shoed foot is tracing lazy circles around his anklebone. He tries to say something, but the former Slytherin is looking away, a blank expression on his face as though he were not mercilessly teasing Oliver beneath the surface of the table. "The Easter decorations are interesting," he comments idly.

Oliver glances at them. Each year Madam Rosmerta gets the Hogsmeade kindergarten children to colour in a myriad of paper Easter eggs and sticks them over the windows, winking cheerily at passers-by; this year most of the eggs are featuring some assortment of stripes. "You should have seen them last year," he says, shifting his foot into the caresses of Aidan's. "She got them to do spots. There was paint everywhere."

Aidan chuckles. "I suppose," he says, still not looking at Oliver. "At least this time they're in a pattern. Sort of."

"I love the way she does it for the kids, though. My niece did it last year, she had the time of her life."

The blond actually _toes off_ his shoe and drags his toe up Oliver's ankle, catching on his jeans and taking them with him, the soft wool of his socks nudging the hairs on Oliver's legs. He supresses a shudder.

"Lovely as the decorations are," Aidan purrs, _finally _turning his head towards Oliver and smiling in a way that sets his heart spinning, "I think we should get out of here."

Sighing with relief, Oliver manages a noise of assent and downs the last of his Butterbeer. He stands by the table and laughs while the Seeker fumbles with his shoe under the table; when the other man stands up he slings an arm around his waist and feels an answering hand on his hip, their sides bumping comfortably together. As they step outside, Aidan, half a head the shorter, tilts his head until it rests on Oliver's shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

Today's line: "_It's a three-pipe problem._" – Obviously credit to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Also, I added to this one the next day to make that prompt easier. I feel like I cheated, but hey.

* * *

They stumble into Oliver's flat already kissing; the door bounces off the wall and Aidan's pliant body bounces into Oliver's chest on impact, tiny breathless giggles escaping from between their joined lips.

A soft _eek!_ of surprise announces that Isabel's in the room, sitting on the sofa and staring at the two of them as though unable to look away. Oliver shoots her a pointed look where Aidan can't see it; the number of times he's cleared out the flat for her, she certainly owes him one.

"Oliver!" she squeaks, standing up and searching around for her purse. "I didn't think you'd be home so soon. Lovely to meet you, Aidan – I'm a huge fan. I'd ask for your autograph but I think Oliver might kill me so I'll leave it for another time. Bye!"

Before either of them can blink, Isabel has grabbed her bag from over the coffee-table where she'd dumped it after the cardigan fiasco and practically sprinted from the room. Aidan laughs brightly. "Whew," he says. "She left in a hurry."

Oliver laughs in return, not letting go of the smaller man. "We have a sort of unspoken agreement that consists of me leaving when she brings someone around because I don't want to hear anything and her clearing out in return on the odd occasion I turn up with company."

Aidan nods pensively. "Sounds fair. Howard and I probably would have something like that, were I ever to bring anyone home without expressly asking him to not be there first."

They think about it together for a moment before Oliver realises what they're doing, and what they _were_ doing, and how much he'd like to be doing it again, so he leans forward and presses his lips against Aidan's again, gently tonguing the last tiny remnants of Butterbeer away from the inside of his mouth.

In a few minutes they're on the sofa, Oliver's lap full of blond Seeker sucking desperately on the soft skin of his neck.

Aidan's stomach growls agressively. Oliver giggles; the smaller man leaves off his neck to rest his head on Oliver's shoulder and join in. "Are you hungry?" Oliver asks, concerned.

The former Slytherin looks awkward. "Famished," he admits after a moment's hesitation. "I didn't have lunch, I had a meeting with the Irish Quidditch Board. I didn't want to say anything because I wanted you…"

Oliver smirks and kisses him before patting his arse as a motion for him to get up. He throws open the pantry doors, hoping vainly that Isabel will have done some form of shopping in the few days that he was away, before sighing at the state of the cupboard. "Ah," he says apologetically. "This may be a problem."

Aidan peers over his shoulder. "It may be," he agrees, looping his arms around Oliver's waist and looking at the loaf of furry green bread on the countertop.

"It's a three-pipe problem," Oliver murmurs without thinking.

The blond chuckles. "All right, Sherlock," he agrees, planting a gentle kiss on Oliver's neck before moving past him to grab the mouldy bread.

He realises what he's said and could kick himself; ever since a Muggle-born friend introduced him to _Sherlock Holmes_ he hasn't been able to leave it alone, and references and quotes have simply woven their way into the fabric of his internal monologue. Then he realises what Aidan said in reply and rethinks kicking himself. He supposes, with the other man's _Little Mermaid_ obsession, he shouldn't be surprised that he recognises Sherlock Holmes.

"Right," he says instead. "Well, we can always go back out and get something."

When he turns around, though, the blond is directing a careful, steady heat at a piece of bread magically restored to full freshness. Oliver stares. "You've got to teach me that one," he says in amazement. Aidan chuckles.

"Elementary," he says easily. "Now – you must have butter? Jam?"

Oliver frowns. "Butter, yes," he says hesitantly, opening the cool-chest and removing a dish half-full of butter. "Jam, from memory, we've run out of."

Aidan smiles tightly as he spreads butter on his toast. "Oh, dear," he says wryly, taking a bite. "You'll have to get some before I come around next time.

The words _next time_ bounce around Oliver's head and spread a smile across his mouth. "All right," he says, grinning as the former Slytherin wipes toast crumbs away from his mouth. "Any particular flavour you prefer?"

Swallowing the last of his toast in a distinctly suggestive manner that makes Oliver flush hotly, the Seeker grins. "Raspberry," he says firmly. Oliver doesn't question him. "I think we were doing something before my stomach rudely interrupted us," Aidan continues, stepping forwards and brushing an imaginary – Oliver assumes it's imaginary – speck of dust off Oliver's shoulder, his blue-grey eyes coquettish but uncertain, asking if it's all right, if he still wants to, and Oliver's heart melts a little bit.

"Yeah," he says, stepping back into the smaller man's personal space. "I think we were."


	8. Chapter 8

Today's line: "_Much love, remember the raspberry jam next time. Terrah!"_

* * *

He wakes up from a light doze wrapped in the scent of lemony soap and someone's lithe but strong arms and legs and his own blinding, overwhelming happiness.

As he stirs, Aidan releases him and stretches luxuriantly. "You are fantastic," he murmurs, running two fingers down Oliver's side. Oliver chuckles idly, turning to roll his body half-over Aidan's and plant a lazy, sloppy kiss on his collarbone.

"So I'm told," he replies airily. "Though I think it's one's partner that makes the difference."

For a moment they just lie there, Oliver stretching and feeling the satisfying clench and burn in his muscles before curling back into his newfound lover's warm body and almost drifting off to sleep. Lazily he bites down on Aidan's chin and asks, "Do you have to be anywhere?"

Aidan hums vaguely. "I'm supposed to be having dinner with my parents," he says, his Irish lilt thoroughly unenthusiastic. "I missed it last time they invited me for an emergency press conference, so I really can't skip it this time."

"What would you tell them?" Oliver asks, stroking up and down the dip between the Seeker's pectorals. "That you had to stay home and shag?"

He chuckles. "Maybe just that I'd had an offer I couldn't refuse," he says lightly.

There's a pause. Then Aidan shocks Oliver by saying quietly, "It wouldn't be so boring if you came with me."

Oliver doesn't know what to say. They've only known each other for two days now and Aidan is already inviting him to meet his parents – does that mean as much to him as it means to Oliver? He couldn't bear getting his hopes up in this manner, talking to Aidan's family and not knowing that this is something he wants to last, not knowing if in a few days he'll be alone again with only the memory of an intimate, domestic dinner.

"That's, um… I mean, we've only really known each other for two days –"

"I know," Aidan says, turning over and propping himself up on his elbow, looking serious. "I thought… I know that it's a big deal, taking you to meet my parents, but I thought you felt the same way I did. That this isn't… normal."

He looks almost apologetic, desperately uncertain, and Oliver leans up and kisses him because his heart feels so huge it might explode with the relief that he's _not the only one_.

"I _want_ you to meet my parents, to come to my Quidditch functions, to read my speeches before I give them at press conferences. When I met you, I just… I just felt like you could be so important to me. And I want that to start _now_. I can't just walk out of here with a _much love, remember the raspberry jam next time, terrah!_ because I don't want you to think that this is something I do all the time."

After another brief, frantic kiss, Oliver stands up. "Okay," he says firmly. "We're going to have dinner with your parents. You don't think they'll mind if you bring someone?"

Aidan's smile is positively angelic. "Not at all."


	9. Chapter 9

Today's line: "_Say something witty and amusing."_

* * *

"Darling!"

Mrs Lynch stands with her arms outstretched towards her son, her blond hair neatly coiffed and her fingernails hot-pink. Oliver bites his lip to stop from laughing as Aidan succumbs to the embrace, shooting a wry grin his way from her shoulder. "Mum, this is Oliver," he says when he pulls away from her.

She gives him a brisk, grinning once-over. "Hi," Oliver says nervously.

"Hello, sweetie. We were thrilled when Aidan sent his owl. It's so _nice_ to see him happy." The Seeker shrugs minutely behind her back, still grinning. Abruptly, Mrs Lynch turns and marches back indoors. "Come in, dear, come in."

Aidan takes his hand as they follow her inside. "Yeah. My mother's a bit intimidating. Dad's all right – say something witty and amusing, and he'll like you."

_Say something witty and amusing. _Oliver swallows. "So no pressure," he says brightly. Aidan grins.

Compared to his wife, Mr Lynch is a diminutive man, balding and with small round spectacles. He smiles up at Oliver as they enter the living room and his eyes are Aidan's, almost-blue and almost-grey and quick and sharp and brimming with humour. "You must be Oliver," he says brightly. "Pleased to meet you."

"And you," Oliver replies, taking the outstretched hand and shaking it. "Sorry for the short notice, and all."

Mr Lynch's eyebrows hitch minutely upwards. "Oh, you're Scottish," he says, tilting his head to one side.

"Yeah," Oliver replies. "Sorry."

The shorter man snorts out a laugh and claps him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, eh?" he trumpets. "Shall we go over for dinner?"

Oliver catches Aidan's eye over his shoulder: the former Slytherin is grinning, a warm glint in his blue-grey eyes, as they settle down at the homely dining table laid carefully in a fancy tablecloth and roast chicken. Aidan sits carefully next to Oliver, subtly shifts his chair closer, and lays a hand on Oliver's knee. He sends a half-grin sideways.

Aidan's parents are sweet, idyllic people that Oliver likes, but is glad to be rid of when they finally step out into the garden, the blond succumbing to one last cloying hug on the way out. Mrs Lynch's nasal, overly-fond voice follows them down the front path; Aidan smiles apologetically at him as they leave.

"They're, um, a bit of a handful. Sorry."

Oliver chuckles. "They're like something out of a picture-book. With parents like those, how did you end up a gay Quidditch player? Weren't they painstakingly bringing you up to work in the financial sector for the Ministry?"

The Seeker elbows him in mock-affront. "My uncle," he admits after a moment. "Mum's brother. Got me on a broom for the first time, _and_ taught me that it didn't matter who you loved as long as you loved them well. So he's responsible for every aspect of my deviancy."

They laugh briefly together. "Stay with me tonight," Oliver pleads. "I have things to do in the morning, but I want you with me for tonight, at least."

Aidan gives another of his devastatingly genuine smiles. "All right," he agrees, sliding his fingers in between Oliver's. "I'll stay."


	10. Chapter 10

Today's line: "_I don't know anything funny, a joke-themed party is not a good idea, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes discount or not!"_

* * *

Oliver wakes up feeling warm and comfortable and well-rested, wondering why the sun is up already when his alarm hasn't gone off.

He rolls over, gently disentangling himself from the octopus of a man he fell asleep with, and realises that his alarm hasn't gone off because he didn't cast the charm the previous night.

"Bugger!"

Aidan sits up with a gasping intake of breath as Oliver vaults off the bed and tugs on a pair of pants with Quaffles on them, hopping on one foot looking for a pair of passable trousers. "'s going on?" he asks blearily.

"I'm late," Oliver tells him, locating his trousers and attempting to wriggle into them while casting a frantic Tempus charm. "I have a meeting with the team, we're trying to organise a surprise party for the captain's birthday on Sunday week."

The sleepy Seeker runs a hand through his hair, managing to make even more of it stick up at endearing angles. "Okay," he says finally, throwing back the covers and kicking his way out of bed.

Oliver watches him while he pulls a shirt over his head. "You don't have to get up," he says softly. "You can have a shower and let yourself out. Isabel's back, I think."

Aidan pauses for a moment, and so he says, "You could… stay until I get back. If you want. I'll be done by lunchtime, and then we can go out somewhere."

The former Slytherin smiles lazily. "I might go home and change and then meet you somewhere for lunch," he compromises.

"Great!" Oliver agrees, snatching his wallet and his wand off the bedside table and making for the door.

Aidan catches hold of his wrist so fast he almost yanks it out of its socket. "Oi," he says gently. Impatient, Oliver turns to face him.

He's lying on his side on the bed now, having rolled over to catch him, naked and glorious and looking up at Oliver through long lashes and straggly bits of blond fringe and the thought of leaving him here is painful. Instead he bends over him and tangles their lips and tongue together, straightening again with a soft whisper of, "Good morning."

The Seeker laughs. "Good morning." He stretches indolently, and Oliver's mouth goes dry. "I could meet you at the Hinkypunk's Lantern at one?" he suggests.

It's more than Oliver's presence of mind can do to disagree, so he nods blindly, and after another hasty Tempus charm he physically tears himself away from the sight and out into the hallway, listening to the sounds of Aidan rolling over and pulling the covers back over himself as he leaves.

The team is already in full swing when he gets there; Howard and Jenny are arguing over whether or not the party should be dress-up and the other teammates are sitting around the changing room with their hands over their eyes.

"Sorry I'm late," he excuses tentatively.

Jenny sighs. "That's all right. Putting aside the issue of dress-up for now, we still need to agree on a theme."

Oliver thinks. "I get a discount at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes," he ventures. "George was on my school Quidditch team. We could have a sort of joke-themed party."

"No," Howard shoots down instantly. "I don't know anything funny, a joke-themed party is not a good idea, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes discount or not!"

Jenny rolls her eyes at him. Oliver breathes deeply and leans back against the changing-room wall.

It's going to be a long meeting.


	11. Chapter 11

Today's line: "_The herb garden's looking a bit dry. 'Erb, herb. Which sounds better?"  
__-"They both sound weird. Rip it out and plant a geranium instead."_

* * *

As promised, Oliver meets Aidan at the Hinkypunk's Lantern in Dublin at one, sagging into the wall of the Apparation point with the exhaustion that comes from two hours of negotiating around Howard in a stubborn mood. Aidan is waiting for him at the point, and loops his hand through Oliver's arm, levering him upright with a gentle kiss on the cheek and a whispered, "Didn't go well, then?"

Oliver sighs. "It took them half an hour to decide that we couldn't have a fancy-dress party because Danny wouldn't be dressed for it, it being a surprise party." He shakes his head in despair. Aidan snickers.

"You sound like you need a pint."

They drink for too long considering the time, bathed neatly in the pink light of the pub, and then when Aidan gets up, hauls them both back to the Apparation point and squeezes them into a well-lit hallway that Oliver can only assume belongs to his Dublin flat.

He stumbles into the wall, pulling the older man into him until he's pinned. "Whoops," he says quietly.

The Seeker laughs. "Whoops indeed," he says gleefully. Then he slowly arranges his limbs until he has the balance to clamber off Oliver, who shakes his head to clear the spinning motions from his ears. "D'you want the tour?"

The tour ends up being relatively short; Aidan pulls him at breakneck speed around most of the house with a hurried call of 'kitchen' and 'bathroom' as they half-run past the rooms, then stops on his way through the living room. "I'm quite proud of this."

_This_ turns out to be a balcony with a perfect wire surround at chest height. Oliver can't help his awed expression as he steps out onto it, watching the sparrows peck around the garden below them. "How much of that garden is yours?" he asks quietly.

Aiden slips his arms around Oliver's waist and leans them against the wire. "About half," he answers, just as softly, his Irish lilt a seductive hum in Oliver's ear. "The begonias, the pansy bed – Katie likes pansies. The herb garden's looking a bit dry." He pauses for a moment as though considering. "_'erb_," he purrs into Oliver's cheekbone. "_Herb_. Which sounds better?"

Oliver turns his head to capture the Seeker's lips quickly. "They both sound weird," he admits. "Rip it out and plant a geranium instead."

The former Slytherin snorts. "I think the landlady would murder me." Oliver feels him shift against his back and pull his wand out of his pocket. _"Aguamenti_," he whispers, controlling the jet of water until it lands neatly in the herb garden.

"Have you finished housekeeping now?" Oliver asks when he finally lets the stream end.

Aiden laughs. "Sorry," he says softly, taking his earlobe into his mouth by way of apology. Oliver makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat and forgives him. The blond turns him around and kisses the corner of his mouth, just in case. "Will you let me make it up to you?" he asks quietly.

Oliver smirks. "If you like," he says.


	12. Chapter 12

Today's line: "_You are in serious need of a new jumper, Aidan."_

* * *

"You know what we should do?" Aidan says brightly a few hours later. Oliver rolls over, raising an eyebrow at the sudden surge of energy. "We should go and have a picnic dinner on the beach somewhere."

The other eyebrow joins the first. "A picnic on the beach," he repeats incredulously.

The Seeker beams at him. His enthusiasm, as always, is terribly infectious and Oliver finds himself smiling back. "Yeah," the older man says. "I have some champagne somewhere. Picnic at dusk on the beach?"

Oliver glances at the window, through which the beginnings of a darkening sky can be seen. He grins. "All right. Why not? Grab a jumper."

Aidan vaults off the bed, face shining with enthusiasm. "Do you want one?" He pulls two lumps of fabric from a shelf in his wardrobe without looking at them and tosses one at Oliver.

The other, which he shrugs over his own head, is threadbare and sporting several holes. Oliver stares at it. "Is that the best you've got?" he asks.

The former Slytherin shrugs. "You're wearing my best one. I don't normally wear them. Is that bad?"

Oliver stands up, pulling the jumper over his head and straightening the navy-blue one over Aidan's. "You," he says gravely, "are in serious need of a new jumper, Aidan."

Aidan quirks an eyebrow. "We'll go shopping another day."

They leave the Dublin flat hand in hand, Oliver grinning like a fool in response to such a cavalier assumption that they'll still want to go everywhere together, do everything with and for each other, at an indeterminate point in the future.

The beach is cold, the sand damp and unpleasant and whipping with the breeze around their ears. Aidan shakes out the picnic blanket, sits down and sighs. "It was a good idea," he says sadly.

Oliver laughs. "It was a brilliant idea," he counters, sitting down half-on the Seeker's lap. "You can't help the weather. Here –" he casts a Shield Charm in front of them and the assault of the wind and sand lessens; Aidan hums in delight and levitates the champagne – classically placed in an ice bucket with the cork sticking towards them – between them.

"Danny's party is on Sunday," he says conversationally, watching his lover struggle with the cork on the champagne bottle. "I, um… I know it's a big deal, but I'd really like it if you could come with me."

The cork surrenders, flying out of the bottleneck with an almighty _pop_ and soaring into the surf. Aidan stares at him, champagne running in front of his feet before he snatches a champagne flute and catches the flow. "Come… to your Captain's surprise birthday party with you?" he asks.

Oliver tries to shrug while still looking serious. "I want you there," he said.

"But… won't there be press people there?" the Seeker protests.

He hadn't thought about that, too busy thinking about the reactions of his own teammates. _Is_ it a wise idea to suddenly announce to his teammates _and_ the press at the same time that he's dating a member of another team in the League? A _male_ member of another team? Only, now that the idea is in his head he can't let it go. "They'll find out sooner or later," he says, struggling to keep his voice even. "And it's like you said… this isn't normal. I don't think we should hide it."

Aidan's round, boyish face splits into a slow smile. "The press'll turn it into a shitstorm," he says, but Oliver can hear the tiny note of relish in his voice.

He shrugs again. "Let them try."

The former Slytherin hands over a champagne flute and holds his own in a sort of salute. "To us," he says cheerfully.

Oliver grins and taps the glass with his own, revelling in the clear note that follows the contact. "To us."


	13. Chapter 13

Today's line: _"It was Romeo and Juliet."  
-"Oh, of course it was."  
__-"Mmn, it is a crowd favourite."_

* * *

They have the party at Glasgow Stadium, marquees and tents sprawling across the grass. Danny himself had arranged team practise for the day, claiming that he wanted to see the team on his birthday – Oliver's suspicions that he had known full well what would happen were confirmed at the huge, so obviously false expression of surprise on his face when he walked in.

He and Aidan make separate circles for the first few hours by previous agreement; they had agreed that the press needed to spend some time with Danny first, considering that it _was_ his event, before they came flocking to some display of affection that the two of them planned to show.

All the same, it's torture. People from all over the Quidditch scene are there, so Aidan isn't out-of-place as the only Irish player, but that doesn't stop Oliver following him with his eyes, watching the way he moves in his tight black dress-pants and mint-green shirt and half-listening to Howard showing off to the group of female journalists they've somehow managed to situate themselves beside.

"You know, I was an amateur dramatist in my day," he's saying. Oliver bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Jenny, her back to the press, takes no such precautions. "Oh, you were, were you?" she says drolly.

Howard misses the sarcasm. "Indeed I was," he says proudly. "I got three curtain-calls in my first open performance."

Oliver's teeth dig brutally into his lower lip as Jenny rolls her eyes. "I'll bet you did."

It's testament to how thick Howard really is – and perhaps an insult to the Beaters' position – that he doesn't notice that Jenny is laughing at him. "It was Romeo and Juliet," he elaborates.

"Oh, of course it was," Jenny continues, in the same flat, sarcastic tone of voice that Howard completely misses.

The burly Beater frowns pensively instead. "Mmmn, it is a crowd favourite."

Oliver's just about to join in the blatant baiting of the bigger man when there are small, strong arms around his waist and sculpted lips on his ear. "Hey there, gorgeous," Aidan rumbles behind him.

His mouth dry, Oliver turns around and smiles at his lover. "Hi," he says softly. "Are you ready?"

Aidan smiles, his arms tightening minutely around Oliver's waist. "As I'll ever be," he replies, and then tilts his head up and presses their lips together.

The music, the chatter, Jenny's laughs, fade away into the background; the Irish National Seeker is kissing him, his tongue gently flicking out to taste his lips, and he's doing it _in front_ of so many people because he wants the world to know that Oliver is his.

They break apart to the sounds of flashing cameras and clamouring journalists, all manner of different wands pushed in his face as people shout questions at him. He reaches down and clasps the blond's hand tightly in his own, trying to sort each individual question from the hum of activity.

Some of the shouted questions make him smile – _do you two train together? Have you always had a predilection for big handsome Quidditch players, Mr Lynch? _– but others make him flinch and draw closer to his lover in self-defense._How many of Ireland's team secrets do you know? Have you considered that your shirt-lifting behaviour is a disgrace to the game? _

Aidan squeezes his hand, and Oliver squeezes back, lifts his chin and pushes his shoulders back.

"Aidan and I are in a consenting adult relationship, _separate_ to the competitive relationship we share through Quidditch. We do not believe that this relationship affects the way that we play the game, nor that our choice to participate in it should affect the way we are seen by others. Any further questions can be addressed to us in writing. Thanks very much."

They turn away from the press and wander purposefully towards the drinks table, Oliver's heart swelling from the knowledge of what they just did and the fact that none of the press are following them.

"Well," he says briskly, smiling at the Seeker and handing him a glass of white wine, "we're out."


	14. Chapter 14

Today's line: _"This music is shit. Turn it off and chuck on The Who."_

* * *

Isabel slaps his face with _The Daily Prophet_ to wake him up the next morning.

"Congratulations," she says brightly. "You're the top item in the Sporting section."

Blearily, Oliver looks down at the paper. _QUIDDITCH COUPLE CAUSE SCANDAL_, reads the headline, above a picture of he and Aidan in mid-kiss at the party. He notices that while Jenny, beside them in the picture, is smiling in amusement, Howard beside _her_ looks horrified. Whether that's because they're two men kissing or because the sudden attention on them kissing is stealing the attention from him and his Romeo and Juliet anecdote, Oliver can't quite tell.

He reads the paper with his toast and pumpkin juice at the kitchen table; he's barely finished the first sentence – some overdramatic drivel about the sensationalism of the way they 'outed' themselves – when the mail starts to arrive.

The many owls jostle each other around the table as Oliver picks one at random and starts to read. A few Howlers start smoking around the edges; he quickly contains them before they can wake the neighbours.

The actual article is fairly complementary, applauding their courage in announcing their relationship so blatantly if picking out ways they could have done it in a more tsteful way. Oliver has to admit that the kiss was a little over-the-top; the plan had simply been a peck on the lips and then some hand-holding to see if they could subtly attract a few photos, but they'd both been so nervous they'd got carried away.

Some of the mail, on the other hand, is anything but encouraging. Oliver picks out the sentence _disgracing everything Quidditch stands for_ more than once, and the phrase _can't believe someone I had so much respect for could do something so disgusting_ makes his heart drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.

Flottie soars inelegantly through the window and knocks over several waiting owls with a few choice shoves of elbow-like wings to get to him. Oliver laughs and carefully extracts the letter from her leg; Aidan's familiar writing makes him smile.

_Could deal with this easier if I was with you. Send Flottie back if it's not okay for me to come over. _

He smiles, fishes a bent quill out of a drawer in the kitchen and scribbles back, _Please, I need to see you. _

It takes barely ten minutes for Aidan to knock on the downstairs door; Oliver throws down the letter he was reading and vaults the stairs to let him in. He's enveloped in a crushing hug the moment the door opens. "Thanks," Aidan murmurs into his ear.

"Let me read you this one," he says in return, taking Aidan's hand and leading him up the stairs. In the kitchen, a new plethora of owls have landed on the floor. He scoops up the letter he was reading and yanks his lover into the living room and onto his lap in the armchair by the window. The forest of owls follow them; Aidan looks up and snorts at them.

_"Dear Mr Wood,_" Oliver reads aloud, letting his free hand stroke up the curve of Aidan's elbow. "_I was absolutely delighted to see the article in the Daily Prophet this morning regarding your revealing of your relationship with Aidan Lynch. Both of you are players I admire greatly but your courage in taking this step has me in complete awe of you. As an out-and-proud homosexual myself, I fully understand the difficulties of revealing something that will put you in such a vulnerable position, especially as a celebrity and a sportsman. Your confidence in yourself and your sexuality has even inspired my partner to begin talking about 'coming out' to his office, which I had begun to despair of him ever doing. Congratulations to the both of you; you are both remarkable people and I am very pleased you have each found someone as fantastic as you. I wish you the very best of luck for your futures._

_"Sincerely, Isaac Hampton." _

The two of them sit in silence for a moment. Aidan sighs. "It's nice to know we still have fans," he says quietly.

Oliver hums in agreement and kisses the back of his neck gently. "I didn't even consider what he was saying about his partner. There are people out there who haven't told _anyone_, and now maybe seeing how easy it is – maybe having someone they look up to do it they'll have the courage to start thinking about it themselves."

For a moment there's silence but for the burbling of the WWN. Then Aidan huffs irritatedly. "This music is shit," he says matter-of-factly. "Turn it off and chuck on The Who."

Chuckling, Oliver waves his wand at the radio, wraps his arms around his lover and settles in for a lazy morning of discarding the hate mail and treasuring the people like Isaac Hampton, whom they're helping and inspiring, thoroughly pleased that Aidan, too, believes they can get through this as long as they do it together.


	15. Chapter 15

Today's line: _"This is a talking stick. You don't get to hold it. I hold it. If you talk, I will hit you with it."_

* * *

Of course, Oliver hadn't reckoned on team Quidditch training the following day.

The press were camped outside the stadium when he arrived, shoving their wands in his face and shouting questions at him. "I'm sorry," he tells them, not really sorry at all, "but I have to get to training. I really can't answer any questions at the moment."

He makes a mental note to Disapparate straight from the changing room to avoid them on the way out and brushes past them into the stadium.

Danny is standing by the changing-room door; Oliver discovers to his slight embarrassment that he's the last to arrive. "Sorry," he excuses weakly. "Had to fight through the press on the way in."

This is precisely the situation he had hoped to avoid, standing in the doorway with the entire team looking at him, feeling cornered. Danny shuts the door behind him with a tight sigh. "We all did," he says heavily. "I'm not saying we're not all hugely supportive of you, Ollie, but you really should have given us some warning that you were going to do something that drastic."

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because he knows it's true. "I just – we only just decided we were going to do it on Friday, and we didn't mean to make it quite so sensational as that. I would have told you if I'd had time."

Howard stands up and goes to say something angry, but it's drowned out by Jenny, who grabs the back of his Puddlemere United jersey and tries to yank him back into his seat, shouting at him to shut up, that Oliver's probably got enough problems with the press without Howard turning on him too. Naturally, this quickly develops into a full-blown argument between the two. Oliver surmises from some of the things Howard is saying that he's more upset about the fact that the press don't want to talk about _him_ for once than actually homophobic.

Eventually, though, Danny bellows _oi! _across the room and the two shut up, Jenny still glaring at Howard. The captain lifts his wand, fashions a sort of baton with it out of the air, and holds it aloft. "This," he says firmly, eyeballing Jenny sternly, "is a talking stick."

His eyes snap to Howard, who's opened his mouth to ask for the talking stick. "You don't get to hold it," he pre-empts. "I hold it. If you talk, I will _hit_ you with it. Got that?"

Eyeing the baton warily, Howard nods. Oliver supresses a smile. Danny sighs. "Oliver, mate," he says, clapping him on the shoulder, "nobody here cares whether you're dating a man or a woman, and we're all thrilled that you've found someone you want to show off like this. All I'm saying is that your way of doing so could have been a bit more delicate, seeing as how this is affecting the way people see the whole team. And I know you understand that," he adds quickly, evidently seeing the look on Oliver's face. "And we all heard your apology and appreciate it. Right, guys?"

He lets a deathly glare sweep around the room, defying anyone to deny it. Nobody does. "Good," he says briskly. "Can we go play some Quidditch now?"

As they step out onto the pitch, Oliver grabs Danny's sleeve and holds him back. "Thanks," he says quietly.

The captain grins at him. "No worries," he says brightly. "And congratulations."


	16. Chapter 16

Today's line: _"Oh, God. Not this again." _For IdrisLady, who requested the following complaint.

* * *

They're sitting at a café on the Strand, sipping coffee and waving idly at all the people staring at them from across the street, pushing their heads together and mumbling in low voices.

"I'm still not sure this is a good idea," Oliver says, keeping his face neutral and taking a gulp of his coffee – black, one sugar – as he tries not to think about whether the people are saying positive things about them or not.

Aidan grins unconcernedly. "We have to show them that we're not worried about what they think," he replies, swirling a spoon around the froth on his cinnamon cappuccino. "That we know they're watching us and we don't care, because there's nothing wrong with what we're doing."

Oliver lifts his coffee cup in a sort of salute, before he's interrupted by someone tapping him politely on the shoulder. "Excuse me," a cool female voice says. "You're Oliver Wood."

He turns to face her, lowering his sunglasses; she's blonde, willowy and wearing a severe expression. "Really?" he asks her sarcastically. "Thanks for letting me know."

Aidan chuckles into his coffee cup. The woman actually spares a tiny smile for the quip, which makes Oliver relax slightly. Then she starts talking. "You're welcome. I just – when I heard I was absolutely astonished that you would do something like this."

Oliver sighs. "Oh, God. Not this again."

"No," the girl says quickly. "I just wanted to say – I hope next time you two play each other you actually _try_. If we catch even hints that you haven't played your best against the Donegal Dragons, that you've let them win for your personal relationship with the Seeker, we'll come after you. And it won't be pretty."

For a moment Oliver stares at her. Then he bursts out laughing. "Sorry," he gasps out; the girl looks hugely put out by his reaction. "You think I'm going to _let Aidan's team win_ the next time I play them? Even if I hadn't expressly stated in my original statement to the press that neither of us would let our personal relationship affect the way we played Quidditch, we played the Dragons last week, so it'll be _months_ before we come up against each other. _And_ neither of us is that sort of person, so please, don't worry. No need to mobilise the fans."

The girl stands in front of him for a moment longer, before huffing something Oliver doesn't quite catch and storming off. Oliver looks at Aidan to see that the blond is biting his lip in a struggle not to laugh and snorts, shaking his head. "As if the Keeper could ever influence the Seeker's performance, anyway," he says.

"You know, though," Aidan says thoughtfully, draining the last of his cappuccino and standing up, "we haven't flown together yet. Like, just flown for the sake of flying."

Oliver grins and stands up too. "Would you like to?" he asks, feeling a thrill go through him at the thought of flying, the joy of his life, with Aidan by his side.

Aidan beams. "I'd love to."

They send a cheery salute to the people still watching them on their way down the street away from the café, and Oliver catches sight of a few camera-flashes directed at them when Aidan loops an arm around his waist and tugs him possessively close. He smiles and leans closer.


	17. Chapter 17

Today's line: _"__There is nothing I want more right now than a cup of tea and a lie down. Merlin. I feel like a Nanna. It's just been such a long week."_

* * *

The first rush of air through Oliver's hair sets his blood on fire, the sound of Aidan's delighted whoop ringing in his ears and compounding the sensation. Oliver laughs for sheer joy at the sensation; he's loved it ever since he was eleven and had his first lesson with Madam Hooch, when he'd kicked off the ground and almost fallen off his broom at the completely unexpected comfort of flight. It had always felt like something he was born to do.

He looks across at his lover, who has his tanned face upturned to the sky, wind dragging his hair back and down in a blond stream, mouth still open in a cry of pleasure.

They settle at an altitude completely removed from the rest of the world, where the people below are merely dots. Oliver nudges his broom closer to Aidan's so that their thighs are touching. The blond grins at him, then turns his gaze speculatively skywards. "There's some light cloud cover a few metres higher," he muses. "Should be enough to hide us from the ground. Race you to Big Ben?"

Typically, instead of waiting for an answer the former Slytherin sees the glimmer of _oh, Merlin, yes_ in Oliver's eyes and takes off, flattening himself against the broom and shouting something back to him that is whipped away by the wind before it can reach his ears.

Oliver laughs and puts on a burst of speed to catch him up.

Aidan's broom is newer – being international standard, it was new at the start of the season – but only fractionally; it's his build and his reflexes that mean Oliver lags behind slightly for the entire flight. Aidan is small, lithe and far too quick on his broom, dipping and diving and loop-the-looping and still managing to stay comfortably ahead of Oliver; in turn, he's built like a Keeper, stockier and more solid, and while he moves fast on his broom he flies to catch and stop the heavier Quaffle mid-movement and he doesn't quite have the speed to match the Seeker.

The smaller man knows it, though, and slows up slightly until they're flying side-by-side, still punishingly, breathtakingly fast, and the adrenaline is so fantastic he almost feels like he could cry. They fly like this until Big Ben is in sight before the game becomes frantic once more, Oliver pushing his broom harder than he remembers ever pushing it before but still not quite a match for the blond, who hurtles towards the clock-tower so fast Oliver worries he won't be able to stop in time.

He does, though, coaxing the broom into such a sudden stop he almost vaults right over the front of it, leaping lightly off instead and landing on the tier beside the spike on top of London's most iconic landmark.

Still fizzing with the adrenaline, Oliver follows, toppling into his lover and pressing him up against the spike to jam their lips together almost savagely. Aidan responds in kind, pulling him closer and losing themselves in it.

After, they fly back, executing silly loop-the-loops and acrobatics, completely drunk on the joy of flying and each other, and collapse back into Aidan's tiny garden, lying side by side and panting, their brooms hovering patiently by their side.

Aidan sighs heavily and contentedly. "There is nothing I want more right now than a cup of tea and a lie down," he says, not making any movements to get up. "Merlin, I feel like a Nanna. It's just been such a long week."

Oliver chuckles as best he can with his breath still heaving desperately in and out of his lungs. "I'll put the kettle on," he says, hauling himself to his feet and stretching out a hand to pull his lover up with him.


	18. Chapter 18

Today's line: _"I really think that I should have gotten those shoes. On sale! And in my size! I'll have to go back tomorrow."_

* * *

The volume of hate mail decreases over the week, until Oliver decides that it's probably safe to clean the floor of the spare bedroom of owl droppings and feathers and migrate back into the office to answer his mail.

Isabel giggles as she watches him with the pile of parchment – the overwhelmingly kind letters which he's decided he wants to keep, the people thanking him for giving them the courage to come out to their parents or their workmates or approach their crushes. She teases him about it, but Oliver's discovered yet more this past week that he likes helping people.

"Maybe when you have to give up professional Quidditch you can teach flying instead," she says. He laughs at her, mostly because _giving up professional Quidditch_ is years in the future and he really doesn't want to think about it, but he's not at all averse to the idea.

They sit in silence for a bit; Isabel is scribbling a letter to someone in her office about something that should have been done several days ago – she didn't mention what precisely it was in her ranting – and Oliver is trying to cram the remaining letters into a drawer in his desk.

When the knock on the door announces that Aidan has arrived he abandons it and goes to get the door; the lithe Seeker beams at him, holding out a bag containing takeaway kebabs from the little place by the Muggle post office.

Isabel's first sentence when they walk into the room is, "I really think that I should have gotten those shoes."

Oliver, who's been listening to the _do I, don't I _speech all morning, rolls his eyes. Aidan doesn't yet know he shouldn't look interested, so Isabel picks out his expression of concern and jumps at the opportunity. "On sale!" she continues. "And in my size! I'll have to go back tomorrow."

Aidan chuckles and hands her a chicken kebab. "Sounds like you will," he commiserates. "Shoe sales are not to be missed out on."

"Don't encourage her," Oliver tells him, accepting the proferred kebab. "You should see how many shoes she already has."

The Seeker cracks open a Butterbeer and tilts it towards him in a sort of salute. "One can never have enough shoes," he says.

Isabel laughs. "You see, Oliver? A man after my own heart."

Slightly possessively, Oliver winds an arm around Aidan's waist and accepts a Butterbeer from him. "You know what they say about all the good ones being gay or taken? It follows that the _best_ ones happen to be both."

"Thanks, dear," Aidan says, turning his head to press a quick kiss on Oliver's lips before tossing Isabel the last Butterbeer and sinking onto the sofa. Oliver delicately folds himself into the inviting gap between his lover's splayed legs and arranges them into a position where they can both eat, but his ownership of the blond is clear.

Isabel giggles deligthedly. "This is lovely," she says, rolling up the parchment and moving it away from the bits of lettuce and mayonnaise falling out of her kebab. "I'm so glad you've found someone _nice_, Oliver."

Oliver lets Aidan have his little giggle and not-so-little toady up to his controlling, slightly-psychotic flatmate, because he completely agrees with her.


	19. Chapter 19

Today's line: _"I'm really not too sure about these Muggle buses. A regular one is all right, but this double-decker thing is very suspicious. I just don't trust it to squeeze through the gaps without magic."_

* * *

He regrets allowing the toadying when Aidan insists that the two of them join Isabel in her shopping mission through Muggle London ridiculously early the following day.

"But Oliver," Isabel pleaded, tugging on his arm to try and haul him out of bed while Aidan – disappointingly dressed –laughed from the end of the bed, "if we don't go _now_ someone else will buy the shoes before I can get there."

Recognising the imminent crisis, Oliver had forced himself to get up, and now here he is, listening to Isabel complain about Aidan's chosen method of transport.

"I'm really not too sure about these Muggle buses," she's saying. Aidan just grins at Oliver and continues to peer in apparent fascination over the railing beside him. "A regular one is all right, but this double-decker thing is very suspicious. I just don't trust it to squeeze through the gaps without magic."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Generally they make the gaps big enough so that the buses can get through without magic," he tries to explain. "Muggle bus drivers have to pass tests and things to get the job to make sure they can drive the bus through the gaps, not like Wizarding drivers who get it based soley on enthusiasm."

He's just guessing, there, but if Ernie, the elderly Knight Bus driver, has ever passed a driving test in his life then Oliver will eat something large and disgusting-looking.

"I still don't like it," Isabel voices.

"Noted," Aidan puts in, still grinning. "And now that you know I'm a sucker for old Muggle romantic traditions, you won't suggest _I_ choose the method of transport again."

His frizzy-haired flatmate relaxes slightly into a chuckle. "Certainly not," she says stubbornly anyway.

They leave her, much to Oliver's relief, at the shoe-shop and venture into the Leaky Cauldron down the road; _how_ Isabel's favourite boutique shoe-shop managed to be around the corner from Wizarding London boggles Oliver's mind slightly, but he wasn't about to complain when Aidan turned to him on the way through the pub and said, "Quality Quidditch Supplies?"

So he's standing in the middle of the comfortable mahogany-brown shop, comparing broom-handle polish hand in hand with Aidan, when a familiar chocolatey voice sidles into his ear.

"Oliver Wood," it says, smooth and rich and warm. "I see congratulations are in order."

Oliver drops the handle polish jar in his right hand and Aidan's fingers in his left and turns to face Charlie Weasley, feeling the blood rush pathetically to his face and cursing his lack of dignity. "Ch-Charlie," he stutters nervously. "Good to see you!"

Charlie Weasley smiles at him, and it's the same smile – the one that always makes Oliver feel like he's the only person in the world who receives it. After a moment of basking in it, he remembers Aidan and then feels terrifically guilty for forgetting him. "This is my boyfriend Aidan," he introduces.

"Aidan Lynch," Charlie finishes for him, sticking out one broad, masculine hand to completely swallow Aidan's in a handshake. "I saw you in the '94 World Cup, very nice."

Aidan laughs weakly, clearly shaken by the dynamic between Oliver and Charlie. Oliver curses the way he _always_ is around Charlie, after _all this time_, even when he hasn't seen his former Captain in years, even when he's grown up now and shouldn't still let someone have so much power over him. "That was not one of my best games," he says easily nonetheless.

Charlie chuckles, the sound low and sultry like Oliver remembers and it _still_ makes him weak in the knees. "You were facing a very confident, very determined Victor Krum," he consoles. "I think you performed admirably."

For a moment they stand there; Oliver has a million questions he'd like to ask but not the words to ask them in or the courage to open his mouth and let them out. Then Charlie sighs. "Well," he says briskly. "I've got to get back, just popped in for a new set of twig-clippers. It was great to see you, Oliver, we'll have to catch up properly sometime. Mum talks about you every now and then, maybe you should have dinner with the family. Harry and George would love to see you."

Oliver manages a weak smile. "Yeah, maybe," he says. "Send me an owl or something."

And then Charlie's gone, with another flash of that disarming smile and a flurry of robes through the door.

Aidan gently inserts his fingers between Oliver's again. "Ex-boyfriend?" he asks gently.

"I wished," Oliver admits, suddenly feeling dejected and wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed again. "Come on, Isabel'll be finished now, we should get back."


	20. Chapter 20

Today's line: _"Stephen Badass. Wait, is that really his name? Oh, no, read it wrong. Barlass. Much less brilliant."_

* * *

They don't talk on the way home; Oliver picks up a _Daily Prophet_ just so that he can hide behind it the moment they step through the door. He can feel Aidan bristling with curiosity, but the other man says nothing, for which Oliver is stupidly grateful. He doesn't want to have to explain the way Charlie Weasley has always made him feel.

Isabel keeps Aidan busy by showing off the _three_ pairs of new shoes she's managed to justify buying to herself and Oliver keeps himself busy with an article about Hermione Granger's upcoming marriage to Ron Weasley, both of whom he vaguely remembers as Harry Potter's friends from Hogwarts. He reads parts of the article aloud because they're sweet, and heartwarming, and full of the spirit of new hope that Oliver loves so much about the world after the War.

"Who wrote this?" Aidan asks suddenly, interested.

Oliver glances at the author's name. "Stephen Badass," he reads, then pauses because that's amazing. "Wait, is that _really_ his name? Oh, no, read it wrong. _Barlass_. Much less brilliant."

Aidan snorts. "Well, I'm happy for them, anyway," Isabel says lightly. "I've seen Hermione around the Ministry a few times, always says hello. Remembers everyone's name." Oliver smiles as Isabel leaves. It's always nice to hear the happy endings of the people who had it worst in the War, and Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were certainly among those.

"So," Aidan says quietly when Isabel has left the room. "Do you want to tell me about Charlie Weasley?"

Oliver sighs. _Not really_, he wants to say, but apparently the redhead is always going to have some strange hold over him, and Aidan deserves to know why. "He was the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team when I first started playing," he says dully. "He was seventh year and I was thirteen – he seemed so grown up."

Aidan chuckles. "Charlie Weasley was never grown up. I remember him, too. Fantastic Seeker."

"Yeah," Oliver says. "Well, I… I completely idolised him even _before_ he accepted me into the team. Everybody did, he was the Gryffindor hero. And then, when out of all of those people who had tried for the position he chose me, and he told me I was by far the best flyer out of all of them, I completely fell in love with him.

"The stupid thing was, he must have known. I could barely string two words together when I was around him – I _still_ can't. But he was so nice to me, always, scheduling extra practises just the two of us when I was really stressed and always making time for me. I was thirteen, no-one could blame me for being completely overwhelmed with how much attention he paid to me – _me!_ And what was a stupid little crush became sort of all-consuming." He sighs again. "It's more than a little disconcerting to discover that even though I'm twenty-four now and I haven't seen Charlie in five years I still can't form sentences around him."

Aidan smiles weakly. "I think the people we fall in love with when we're young and completely naïve never stop having that sort of effect on us," he says gently. "I mean… we fall in love with them because we admire them, and that doesn't really stop when we get older. And Charlie likes you, it's obvious."

Oliver snorts in incredulous amusement. "_Likes_ me, yeah, I'm sure he does. In an abstract, he's-a-good-bloke kind of way. And even if he ever _did_ like me the way I used to like him it would never work because you've seen the way I am around him. I could never actually have an equal relationship with someone I can't think straight around."

There's silence for long enough for Oliver to realise that he's been talking as though he still _wants_ a relationship with Charlie, and backtrack hurriedly. "You know I don't still want him, right?" he asks, looking up at his lover, who's biting his lower lip in a vulnerable gesture Oliver hasn't seen from him before. "I have _you_. And you only make me lose my mind in the _right_ ways."

The Irish Seeker chuckles. "That's good," he says softly, leaving his own armchair in favour of squashing himself into Oliver's and kissing him gently. "That's very good."


	21. Chapter 21

Today's line: _"Enjoy being older than me! It won't be for long!"_

* * *

"Media attention is not what it's cracked up to be," Aidan complains as they shut the door on a storm of journalists camped outside his flat.

Oliver nods. "And it's not cracked up to be much," he agrees. This is the third time in as many days they've been ambushed by the press, after almost two weeks of nothing to lull them into a false sense of security. "I wonder why they're after us _now_?" he adds, falling into an armchair in the living room. "Why not when they first printed that story about us?"

"Well," Aidan says thoughtfully. "First of all, I think the people out there are from _Witch Weekly_ and _Quidditch Quarterly_ and those sorts of magazines rather than the _Prophet_. And it's been two weeks since the _Prophet_ article, they're probably looking for something scandalous that they can report, something more interesting. You know. We're old news now, so they need something to make us new again."

Oliver sighs. "They _could_ just leave us alone," he says dully.

Aidan raises an eyebrow doubtfully. "No fun _or_ money in that," he replies. "I booked us a table at _Leviosa_ for tomorrow night, but if we go out in _this_ we'll get no privacy."

_Leviosa_, Hogsmeade's latest addition, has been back-booked for months; Oliver has been checking every other night since he and Aidan went public. He'd briefly toyed with the idea of checking before then as well, but decided that having just opened, there were bound to be press still poking around the place. He gapes at Aidan. "You got a table at _Leviosa_?"

"I know one of the chefs," the Seeker says unconcernedly. "I tried to get a table at Valentine's Day, but that would have been _really_ miraculous. As it was they've had to _set up_ an extra table to accommodate us."

Oliver tries to nod as though this is completely normal. "I… thank you," he says.

Aidan shrugs. "Not going to be much good if we're surrounded by cameras the whole time," he says dejectedly.

Oliver smirks. "Oh, I reckon we could slip past them."

Polyjuice Potion has been a Class C restricted substance since the War, but there are places one can go; strange as it is, staring into the mirror at someone else's face where your own ought to be, there's something hypnotic about watching Aidan – suddenly the younger, tall and pale – creep up behind him and press a kiss to the vulnerable spot underneath his earlobe. "Are you ready?" he asks, his lips rasping slightly against the skin.

The man whose face Oliver has stolen is in his forties, dark curls shot with violent stabs of grey tumbling over his forehead; Aidan's new body is tall, frighteningly slim, with startling blue eyes and a slightly hooked nose reminding Oliver of his old Potions master. He kisses him, feeling the familiar slide of a different tongue. "As I'll ever be," he replies, gently cupping a different slope of a pale cheek. "Wow, this is weird," he comments. "I feel… _protective _of you. Like I'm supposed to watch over you."

Aidan laughs, and his laugh is the same as ever. "Yeah, well, enjoy being older than me," he taunts. "It won't be for long!"

"We'll have to remember to drink more in an hour," Oliver points out. "Or, _I'll _have to remember, because _you'll_ forget."

The tall stranger laughs again. "That's why I keep you around," he says lightly, bending frighteningly far to press a gentle kiss amongst the foreign curls. "Come on, or we'll be late. I know you don't like being late."


	22. Chapter 22

Today's line: _"STRIPES!"_

* * *

It's odd not being recognised in the restaurant. Oliver can barely remember the last time he went out in public without at the very least people's eyes following him wherever he goes. No-one watches them now apart from the waiters and the couple at the table beside theirs sending furtive glances in their direction. They must make a strange couple, he supposes; they'd even toyed with the idea of assuming some kind of non-romantic relationship as a disguise before realising he'd never be able to keep up the pretence.

The Polyjuice makes it even stranger; every look is twofold, familiar but from strange eyes. It seems wrong to look at this person the way he looks at Aidan, to reach across the table and fondle with his fingers the way he touches the Seeker's shorter, smaller ones. It seems _more_ wrong to think that Aidan is really looking at someone else the way he usually looks at him, even when he knows he can't rationally be jealous because that someone else _is_ him.

The waiter knows who they really are – the booking was under _Lynch_ and practically the whole staff of _Leviosa_ had been standing there to greet them, their faces falling as their next customers turned out to be some other ordinary-looking couple.

"_Aidan Lynch_," Aidan had muttered over the counter. "We have a reservation. We've been getting a bit of unwanted media attention lately, so we thought we'd come like this to keep ourselves private, if you don't mind."

Naturally the staff _didn't_ mind, and so there they were; sitting over a positively unearthly prawn risotto and staring at each other because they look so _weird._

"You know," Aidan voices after a while, "I could almost get used to you like this."

Oliver looks up sharply, the firmly not-jealous part of him snapping. "How do you mean?"

The former Slytherin smiles at him. "Not like that," he says. "I just mean… your person looks a lot more like you than I think you realise. And then with your mannerisms… it's recognisably _you_, but older. I think I like you with the salt-and-pepper hair and the little lines around your eyes."

"Well, that's comforting," Oliver replies, not sure himself whether he's being sarcastic. "Good to know you won't go off me in my old age."

Aidan hums appreciatively. "I think I'll like you in your forties," he comments idly.

It's a throwaway comment, but it makes Oliver's blood hum in his ears. They've known each other for just over a month now and Aidan is already picturing them together in their forties as though it's read that they'll still be together. Which it _is,_ because Oliver feels the exact same way.

Slightly overcome, he stands up in order to bend over the table and press their lips together. "I think that's fantastic," he whispers against thin lips that kiss like Aidan's full ones.

Someone at the next table makes a noise of faint disgust. Oliver breaks away from Aidan to look at her. She's staring at them with a vaguely nauseated expression, as though watching something perverted and terrible. Oliver raises an eyebrow at her. "Something wrong?" he asks.

"Look," the woman replies boldly, and Oliver is not surprised to hear the American lilt to her voice. "I've got nothing against gays. I just don't want to have to watch your little public displays while I'm trying to eat my dinner."

Oliver frowns at her. "You've got _nothing against gays_? So you'd react like that if we were a man and a woman, would you?"

"Well, no, but –"

Still standing, Oliver's blood runs unusually hot with anger as he rounds on her. "And you don't _have_ to watch our _public displays_. You could just as easily turn your head the other way. You could even look at _your_ date – although maybe that hurts more, doesn't it, knowing that even though we're _gays_ we're still happier with each other than you are."

He notices savagely that the woman's smile has slipped and her date looks slightly murderous. He also notices that Aidan is tugging on his sleeve and pleading quietly with him to sit back down and leave it, but he ignores him. "And just a tip, for future reference. When you're pretending not to be a bigoted little –"

_"STRIPES!"_

Startled, Oliver looks down at his lover, at the pink tinge high on his unusually sharp and pale cheekbones. "Sorry," Aidan apologises. "Oliver, sit down. It's not worth it."

He pauses for a moment longer, glaring at the woman. Then he sighs and sits down. "Sorry," he echoes. He knows _he'd_ be embarrassed if the person he was with acted like that. "I just… I've been teased about being gay since Charlie Weasley's friends found out. It's something of a soft spot for me now." Aidan shrugs gently and takes another bite of his risotto, closing the conversation.

Oliver snorts. "_Stripes?_" he asks after a moment's reflection.

Aidan chuckles. "First thing that came into my head," he admits. "I was just trying to get your attention."

"You wanted to get my attention and the first thing that came into your head was _stripes?_"

The Seeker chuckles. "I like stripes."


	23. Chapter 23

_"Might I exchange this change for a lovely crisp note?" _And shush - I'm amazed I lasted as long as I did without this happening.

* * *

They venture into Diagon Alley a few days later, and end up hiding in a corner at Gringotts' for an hour until the witch with the Quick-Quotes Quill stops looking around for them and disturbing the goblins to ask after them and walks out.

A comparatively tall goblin faces up to Oliver's chest when they emerge from their corner – Aidan's blond hair slightly ruffled for reasons unspecified - and very politely inquires their reasons for visiting the bank.

Oliver tries to explain that they were only hiding from someone, but the goblin has such an expectant expression that Aidan tugs on his sleeve and pulls a handful of Galleons from his pocket. "I need some Muggle money," he excuses quickly.

The goblin looks oddly delighted at their custom, so Aidan shrugs at him as they make their way to a counter. "Might I exchange this change for a lovely crisp note?" he asks in a lyrical voice, emphasising the rhyme. Oliver rolls his eyes.

They leave the bank with pleasantly crisp notes clutched in Aidan's delicate hands; hand in hand they wander back down Diagon Alley and pointedly ignore the people staring at them.

"Well, I feel like we should spend some Muggle money now," Aidan says wistfully as they pass through the Leaky Cauldron.

Oliver chuckles. "Well," he says lightly, "lunch first. Somewhere Muggle. And then… oh! In Muggle culture they go to this place called the _cinema_ on dates all the time."

"The _cinema? _That sounds painful." Aidan insists on taking the Underground, even though he has no idea where they're going; they end up in a street in Euston, obscure and unconnected, and to make up for the fact that they've ended up in backstreet nowhere they settle into an unreasonably busy sandwich bar. Oliver freaks out when he sees the menu.

"The _Sherlock_ wrap?"

In the end he gets the Watson wrap, and Aidan gets the Sherlock wrap, and something in his chest is enormously satisfied by this. "I wonder why they have this Holmes theme? Completely not complaining, but they're not _that_ close to Baker Street."

"Are you serious?" A young woman leans across from a nearby table. Oliver raises an eyebrow at her; her blond hair seems to corkscrew straight out from her head and defy gravity, but her face is youthful and open and shining with fondness. "They filmed _Sherlock _next door. You know, the modern TV series?"

Aidan stares at her. "The what?"

"Television," Oliver says quickly. Aidan's face clears. "By _modern_, do you mean it was made _recently_?"

The woman frowns. "No – well, yes, it was, but I mean it's set in modern times. Like, it takes place _now_. You really haven't heard of it? If you're a fan of Sherlock Holmes, you really have to watch it."

Oliver looks at Aidan, who makes a mildly impressed face. "Maybe we do," he agrees.


	24. Chapter 24

Today's line: _"It's a positive masterpiece!"_

* * *

Oliver isn't quite sure what film they end up watching at the cinema; all he's aware of from about ten minutes in is that it's rubbish and there are weirdly-styled pale people pretending to be vampires and Muggles apparently don't understand the concept of vampires _at all._

All he's aware of from about twenty minutes in is that Aidan is also bored and that someone is _bound_ to notice that they've stopped keeping their hands to themselves and started carefully hiding bits of the _awful_ popcorn in the hair of the man in front of them.

At the end of the film he stands up and looks surprised when half a tub of popcorn falls out of his afro like dandruff. Oliver and Aidan collapse into giggles and dash out of the cinema as quickly as possible.

"Well," Aidan says critically as they blink into the sunlight outside.

Oliver nods sharply. "Yep. We're never doing that again."

He looks back at the windows of the theatre. "Why did you choose that film? There were plenty of others we could have seen, I'm sure they're not all that terrible." Aidan looks over at the posters. "Look, this one says it's a _positive masterpiece_, why couldn't we have seen that one?"

Aidan just laughs. "Well, next time we decide to burn some Muggle money, _you_ can pick what we do."

"You bet I will," Oliver returns quickly, "and there won't be any of this _Twilight_ crap. I don't know _how_ they formed this opinion of vampires."

"Yes, they did get that somewhat wrong, didn't they," Aidan giggles. "Sparkling in the sunlight. _Honestly_."

It's late evening, but the sun is still shining as they Apparate out of an alley and into the hallway of Aidan's flat. Dylan McGahn looks up at them and grins as they wander into the living room, waving his wand at the WWN to turn it down. "You two are adorable," he says, his thick accent marring the words. "Where've you been today?"

"We went to the cinema," Aidan says dully. "Muggle date experience."

Dylan spins his wand between his fingers idly. "I see. Any good?"

"No," Aidan says grumpily. "The best part of the film was the afro of the man sitting in front of us. It really just sort of cemented how _ignorant_ Muggles are."

Oliver shrugs. "I'm not about to pretend that wasn't a truly shocking experience," he contributes, "but I have seen a few Muggle films before and they're not all like that."

The Irish Seeker's face softens as he looks at him. "I'll take your word for it," he says, but he leans over and kisses Oliver's cheek anyway. "Actually, that Sherlock Holmes television thing that woman was talking about sounded like it could be good."


	25. Chapter 25

Today's line: _"I can't believe you watch that shite on the teller-mission."_

* * *

It takes a few days, but eventually Oliver finds himself curled up on Aidan's sofa staring at a screen they've propped up on the coffee table, watching _Sherlock._

"I still can't believe you own one of these things," he says as the title music unfolds, gesturing idly towards the _laptop_ screen. "It's so… _why_ do you own one?"

Aidan chuckles, the motion wriggling his stomach under Oliver's hands. "My uncle bought it for me," he says. "The one who taught me to fly. Muggles have this thing called the internet, and when you're out in Muggle London you can connect the laptop to it and you can basically look at all the information Muggles have in the entire world. It's amazing really, considering they don't use magic to run it. Anyway that's where I found _The Little Mermaid, _and _Sherlock Holmes_, and all sorts of things. There's so much out there. I'll show you, one day. It's really just coincidence that it can fit these disk things as well."

For the first few minutes he only half-watches the program, more interested in stroking the blond strands of fringe away from Aidan's eyes and the feeling of that lithe body curled inside the shape of his own on the sofa. Then Sherlock Holmes actually appears on-screen, and the Seeker's body ceases its contented wriggling. "_Oh,_" Aidan says gently.

Oliver looks up. The man on the screen now is tall and dark-haired, with a strong nose and wide-set, inscrutable eyes and the most prominent cupid's-bow he's ever seen. He laughs at his lover. "New crush?" he asks.

"Who _is_ he, he's _gorgeous,"_ Aidan says promptly.

He has to admit that there is something about the man, an air of command, control, comfort. But he wouldn't call him _gorgeous_. And besides, he's an actor – that aura could very easily be an affectation. "He's not _that_ attractive," he says grumpily, shifting in his seat. "He's a bit… odd-looking."

Aidan laughs. "Well, he's not as attractive as _you_, I admit," he says, shifting his hand to slide his fingers between Oliver's. "But he is quite striking."

Oliver rolls his eyes and kisses the back of the former Slytherin's neck. Actually, once he gets over his fleeting jealousy for the lead actor, the program is quite good; it's clever in subtle ways, and the shorter actor playing Watson's every emotion is tangible in rather incredible ways, and every now and then he picks up tiny little references to his beloved stories that make him smile and wriggle a little against Aidan's back.

"I can't believe you _watch_ that shite on the teller-mission."

Neither of them look around as Dylan wanders through the room, sparing a glance at the laptop.

"That's _television_, Dylan," Aidan corrects without moving. "And you should give it a chance, it's actually really good. Even if you don't know the Sherlock Holmes stories."

Dylan stomps pointedly out of the room. "I'm sure it is," he throws back over his shoulder. Aidan shrugs his own.

"His loss," he mutters, wriggling more firmly into Oliver's arms so that his hip no longer hangs dangerously over the edge of the sofa. Oliver puts a hand on it just in case. "You know, this is really nice. I can see why Muggles like television."

It _is_ nice, so Oliver hums in agreement. It's interesting, perhaps, that wizards don't have anything quite like it; a way to sit down and just be with someone, or even relax by yourself, while being entertained by the fictional. "You know they watch sport on television too?" Aidan ventures. "I think wizards should come up with something like this. I mean, I think you'd have a hard time convincing them that films are a good idea, but being able to watch live Quidditch from home would be great."

"Mmn," Oliver says. "I know a few wizarding families that keep a television, though, so maybe it wouldn't be as hard as that. Maybe that could be what we do after Quidditch," he ventures after a pause. "Engineer some kind of transmission spell like television to get Quidditch into people's homes."

Aidan makes a lazy noise. "Maybe," he says. There's a pause while both are engrossed by the show; then Aidan turns his head slightly to look Oliver in the eyes. "I like that we agree we'll be together, though," he says softly. "That whatever we do after Quidditch, we'll be doing it together."

"With anyone else, I'd be cautious," Oliver admits. "But I don't feel like I have to with you. Because I _know_ we'll still be together, and I know _you_ know it."

The Seeker smiles and kisses him again. "Now, shush," he says seriously. "I have a feeling he's about to do something really clever."

Oliver allows him to roll back over and rests his chin in the soft dip under Aidan's ear. "It's Sherlock Holmes, and we're two-thirds through it," he comments wryly. "What a daring guess."


	26. Chapter 26

Today's line: _"Wasn't it even more frightening?"_

* * *

Katie Moriarty arrives back at Aidan's flat halfway through the third Sherlock Holmes program; she hums to herself as she drops her bag and coat just inside the door, spots the two of them curled up on the sofa with the laptop and squeals. "Ooh!" she shrieks. "_Sherlock!_"

Aidan sits up and looks around. "You know it?" he asks.

"My sister's married to a Muggle," she elaborates. "She watches them with him and passes the good ones on to me. You know there's a telly in my room? You can use that for series two if you want, the screen's bigger than this thing."

Dylan gapes at her. "You know about this teller-vision thing?" he asked, sounding spellbound.

Katie rolls her eyes. "You've been flatting with me for eighteen months now and you didn't notice that I watch television? Flattering, Dyll."

The Chaser shrugs, and so Katie shoves Aidan's feet further up the sofa, sits down and watches the rest of the episode with them. Oliver doesn't react to the odd line that she says _before_ the actor, but when she whispers _her own surname_ in time with the Czech gallery-owner he sits up across Aidan to look at her.

"Hang on," he says slowly. _"Moriarty?" _

She holds up her hands innocently. "No relation, I swear," she says brightly. "It's actually a fairly common name."

After a further half hour of listening to her quote the show as it's happening, Oliver looks at her and grins. "You know, you'd get on really well with _my_ flatmate, Isabel," he says.

Indeed, Isabel laughs delightedly when he recounts the tale later that night. "A woman of my own heart," she says, her eyes full of mirth. "You should invite her over one day."

"Although," Oliver adds, swallowing his massive gulp of tea, "there was that terrifically frightening moment when we realised that her surname was the same as the ultra-creepy villain's. But that was alleviated slightly when she started reciting his lines along with him."

Isabel frowns. "Wasn't it even _more_ frightening?" she asked. "That she knows the guy's lines _and_ has the same name?"

"Well, if there was a correlation, she'd hardly make it so obvious," Oliver reasons. "Besides, it's _Katie_. And she knew all of Sherlock's lines, too."

They sit in cheerful silence for a few more moments, only broken by Isabel's little whimper of disappointment when the bottom half of her digestive biscuit collapses and crumbles wetly into her teacup.

"You know," she ventures once the entire cup of ruined tea has gone down the drain, "I don't know how you're going to play the Donegal Dragons again, now that you're on such good terms with at least half their team."

Oliver shrugs. "It's only the League. Nothing like a bit of competition between friends. Honestly, I don't see anything changing – _despite_ the number of people who've approached us thinking one of us is going to let the other win for the celebratory sex, or something."

Isabel laughs. "Well, one of you is going to win, anyway," she commiserates, "so the celebratory sex is a given." Oliver smirks as he watches her head tip speculatively sideways. "And, desperately as I'm trying not to think about it, I can't really imagine either of you _withholding _sex. Not the way you are with each other."

"We can stop that line of conversation now," Oliver offers her. "We don't have to worry about playing the Dragons for another few months."

She nods, tapping the kettle with her wand again to set it back on the boil. "I imagine the media will have a field day, though," she muses.

Oliver sighs. "We'll get through it."


	27. Chapter 27

Today's line: _"As luck would have it..."_

* * *

_Five months later_

The Donegal Dragons beat Puddlemere United in the League semi-finals by one hundred and fifty points to thirty.

Oliver supposes there is an element of luck to games balanced such as these, where both teams are strong in different areas; the first time they had played one another the Snitch had been conspicuously absent for _hours_ and Puddlemere had forged wildly ahead on the merit of their Chasers and the unfortunate speed of the Dragons' Keeper, but in today's game the tiny golden ball makes itself known just outside of the one-hour mark and Aidan, utterly focussed, dives right through the middle of game-play and narrowly avoids being hit by the Quaffle to catch it before Puddlemere's Chasers have had a chance to get started.

He catches Katie's eye when they shake hands and the two beam at each other; the woman mouths _good save_ at him as they pass. She'd come at him out of nowhere about twenty minutes in and he'd caught it out of pure luck, so he mouths _good shot_ in retaliation and moves on.

Aidan simply lifts an insouciant eyebrow at him as they clasp hands. Oliver rolls his eyes in a mockery of a long-suffering attitude, and they leave it at that. When they're changed and standing in front of the hordes of press waiting for a post-match statement, he hands over twenty Galleons to his lover.

"Mr Lynch," a journalist shouts as Aidan tucks the prize into the pocket of his beautifully-tailored slacks. "How do you feel about the implications from fans that Oliver Wood _let_ you win?"

The two of them share a look before Aidan replies easily, "I have to say, I've been a little confused as to how the Keeper of the opposition could affect whether or not I caught the Snitch quickly."

Oliver chuckles from a few steps away; a few cameras flash in his face. "In all seriousness, though," Aidan continues, "I understand their concern. Quidditch is a very competitive game and we take it very seriously. Oliver and I are both very competitive people, and I think it's healthy to face off against each other every once in a while. If anything, it makes us both try _harder_ to win. As luck would have it, we came out on top today, and I don't expect that to have more of an effect on my home life with Oliver than it would had we both played separate teams. He played hugely well today and really has no reason to be disappointed in his team's performance."

Their eyes meet over the swarm of journalists and Oliver beams at his lover. The swarm turns towards him instead; he leans away from a wand jabbed in his face with a laugh and a hasty apology from the young witch whose wand it was. "Are you proud of your partner, Mr Wood?" she asks timidly.

Oliver catches tight hold of Aidan's hand as he strolls over. "Very proud," he says earnestly, rubbing the hand in both of his own. "That was a _fantastic_ catch."

Aidan hums critically. "Mmn, not the best of my life," he says.

"No?" Oliver asks lightly, turning to lift an eyebrow at him. "What would you say that was?"

The Seeker kisses him neatly on the cheek. "You," he answers steadily. There's a collective _aaah_ from the press; Oliver's mouth determinedly fights a smile as he rolls his eyes.

"You've been working on that line for ages, haven't you," he says deprecatingly, patting his lover on the cheek.

Aidan grins boyishly. "Weeks and weeks," he admits. "How was the delivery?"

"Not bad," Oliver admits, looping a hand around Aidan's waist and drawing him subtly away from the press. "Not bad at all."


	28. Chapter 28

Today's line: _"It's been quite fun. I've rather enjoyed it." _My sentiments exactly - this has been a fascinating challenge and I'll be sad to say goodbye to these two.

* * *

_Ten years later_

"So, I heard Aidan's retiring from Quidditch," the young woman says brightly as Oliver wanders sheepishly into the meeting room. "That must be quite a shift for you two."

His hands are in his pockets and he's biting his lip because he doesn't know what to say. Emma is a lovely woman and a brilliant manager and he feels like he's letting her down. She looks up when he doesn't reply; her face falls at the expression on his. "Oh," she says quietly. "_Quite_ the shift, then."

Oliver grimaces. "Yeah," he says softly. "I'm really sorry, Emma. We talked about it for ages, it was _not _an easy decision. But… I know my game's been slipping. There are people out there better than I am, I know it, you know it."

Emma smiles tightly. "There are always going to be better people than you out there. It's the nature of sport. But if you've made up your mind, Oliver, I respect that."

A surge of affection twists his hands into awkward shapes in front of him. "Thanks, Emma." After a few more moments of fiddling, he hands over the tightly-bound scroll of parchment he'd been twiddling between his fingers. "My formal notice," he explains.

She nods and takes the paper. "Any plans for the future?" she asks.

Oliver smiles at the thought. "We're going to travel," he says enthusiastically. "Take a break for a bit, you know, go 'round Europe and stuff. Have our fifth wedding anniversary in Italy someplace, I think. And then when we come back… we'll find work somewhere. We haven't really thought about where."

Emma nods. "Well, come and see me when you get back and I'll see if there's anything I can do," she says kindly.

"Thanks," he replies. "Um. I should probably…"

She smiles at him as he fidgets towards the door. "Good luck, Oliver," she tells him. "And congratulations – tell Aidan the same."

He grins. "Thanks for everything," he tells her, and then walks out of professional Quidditch for good.

Aidan's waiting for him outside; Oliver watches him leaning against the wall of the narrow Ministry corridor, inspecting his fingernails. He's breathtakingly beautiful, a man in his prime by now, laugh lines beginning to make themselves known around the edges of his blue-grey eyes. Each time he sees them they make Oliver smile; _he's_ the one who put them there.

He looks up as Oliver comes closer and smiles, his eyes soft. "Not easy, is it," he says quietly.

Oliver takes the hand that is offered to him for comfort. "I've dedicated so much of my life to them – all those offers I had from other teams, and I stayed with Puddlemere. It seems wrong to just be walking away now." Aidan's thumb strokes over the side of his hand, strong and warm. "_But_," Oliver maintains, "this time I had an offer I _really_ couldn't refuse.

Aidan chuckles. "Thanks, darling." Gently, he pushes off the wall, insinuates his legs between Oliver's so that he has to lean on the shorter man to stay upright and then folds him into his arms. "I promise," he whispers, "this is the right thing to do."

"Oh, I know," Oliver assures his husband, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. "What have you been doing all morning, then?"

The newly-retired Seeker lets go of Oliver, takes his hand and sets off towards the door. "Absolutely nothing," he says with some apparent satisfaction. "There's nothing I _have_ to do."

"Dear Merlin," Oliver says softly, chuckling at the thought of Aidan sitting on the sofa in the house they bought seven years ago and staring into space.

Aidan hums in agreement. "It's been quite fun, actually. I've rather enjoyed myself."

Oliver snorts. "We've got to get you out of that house," he comments. The Seeker nods desperately as Oliver opens the front door of the Puddlemere Quidditch Office to let him out. "Come on," he coaxes, patting his husband on his blond head. "Next stop, Vienna."

Outside, the sun is shining and the sky is blue and everything is so perfect Oliver feels like he could explode from the contentment. Aidan drops his hand in favour of slinging an arm around his waist and yanking him closer. "Next stop, the rest of our lives," he corrects.

_The End_


End file.
